A Promise Across Time [Completed]

The Burden of Knowing

August 1965
SWEDEN

****FRIDA

I woke up still feeling tired. Not physically, but emotionally, the kind of exhaustion that comes from an the tension lingering just beneath the surface. Ever since our conversation yesterday, I've been haunted by the weight of what Raven is keeping from me. It isn't just about Benny Andersson, though that's a part of it. It's about something deeper—the sense that Raven knows so much more about my future than she's willing to tell me.

And that hurts.

It hurts because I care about her. This child—no, not just a child, but someone wise beyond her years—has become such an integral part of my life. I've treated her like a friend, a younger sister, but more than that, I've grown possessive of her in a way I never thought I could be. She's like a daughter to me now, and the thought of her hiding something so important to me feels like a betrayal, even though I know she's doing it out of love.

I hate that feeling. The feeling of disappointment that knots in my chest when I think about her withholding the truth, the one thing that could help me understand my future, help me prepare for whatever lies ahead. But I don't want to be in disagreement with her. I don't want to feel sad or angry. I just... want to know.

The early morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the room. I turned and found Raven sleeping beside me, curled up on her side, her hands tucked beneath her head as a makeshift pillow. She was facing me, her breathing slow and peaceful, completely unaware of the storm raging inside my head. Her face, now still and serene, looked so delicate, almost fragile.

For a moment, I allowed myself to really look at her. I had never taken the time to fully study her features before. The contour of her face, the way her lips curved when she smiled, even the shape and color of her eyes—there was an uncanny resemblance. A resemblance to me.

Could we pass as mother and child? Yes. Easily. The thought crossed my mind, unbidden but insistent. There was something about the way she looked at me sometimes, something familiar, like she saw more in me than I saw in myself.

But that was impossible. Raven wasn't my daughter—couldn't be. She was too mysterious, too ethereal, like she didn't fully belong in this world. And yet, the connection I felt toward her was undeniable. It wasn't just love. It was something deeper, more primal. A need to protect her, to understand her, to keep her safe from whatever secrets she was guarding so closely.

As I lay there, staring at her, my mind wandered back to what she had said the day before. "I won't divulge anything unless it's necessary," she had told me, her voice filled with that strange, old wisdom that sometimes caught me off guard. "Or unless it's a matter of life and death."

Why did it have to come to that? Why couldn't she just tell me? Why was she waiting for something drastic to happen before she let me in on whatever truth she was keeping? I wanted to shake her awake and demand answers, but I knew I wouldn't. I couldn't force her to open up, no matter how desperately I wanted to know.